to the
charge.

"It is a great pleasure to me to know that no changes have taken place
during the past year, I hope"--(long pause)--"I hope we shall always
have the same story to tell."

This is fearfully absurd, and he knows it, and blushes again.

"Well, at least," he goes on, "I hope we shall not part from each
other without good cause,--such as a wedding, for instance."

Here he looks at the under-housemaid, who looks at the under-gardener,
who looks at his boots, and betrays a wild desire to get into them
forthwith.

"There is no occasion for me, I think, to make you a speech. I----the
fact is, I----couldn't make you a speech, so you must excuse me. I
wish you all a happy Christmas! I'm sure you all wish me the same.
Eh?----and----"

Here he is interrupted by a low murmur from the servants, who plainly
feel it their duty to let him know, at this juncture, that they do
hope his Christmas will be a successful one.

"Well----eh?----thank you----you know," says Mr. Peyton, at his wits'
end as to what he shall say next.

"You are all very kind, very kind indeed----very----. Mrs.
Lane,"--desperately,--"come here and take your Christmas-box."

The housekeeper advances, in a rounded stately fashion, and, with an
elaborate courtesy and a smile full of benignity, accepts her gift and
retires with it to the background. The others having all performed the
same ceremony, and also retired, Mr. Peyton draws a deep sigh of
relief, and turns to Clarissa, who, all through, has stood beside him.

"I think you might have put in a word or two," he says. "But you are a
traitor; you enjoyed my discomfiture. Bless me, how glad I am that
'Christmas comes but once a year!'"

"And how sorry I am!" says Clarissa, making a slight grimace. "It is
the one chance I get of listening to eloquence that I feel sure is
unsurpassable."

They are still standing in the hall. At this moment a servant throws
open the hall door and Dorian and Horace Branscombe, coming in, walk
up to where they are, near the huge pine fire that is roaring and
making merry on the hearth-stone; no grate defiles the beauty of the
Gowran hall. They are flushed from the rapidity of their walk, and are
looking rather more like each other than usual.

"Well, we have had a run for it," says Dorian. "Not been to breakfast,
I hope? If you say you have finished that most desirable meal, I shall
drop dead: so break it carefully. I have a wretched appetite, as a
rule, b